A Ladder of Panties

by Sandeep Jayaram

  Through the open door, ‘Back in the High Life Again’ streamed out. Out of place for 2003 but so was the garland of blue sanitary pads around his neck. He’d also worn a suit.

  Shockingly sophisticated!

  By the door, Erica, dressed as Goldilocks, spoke to an upcoming television actress dressed up as Helen, the Hindi film beauty. The TV actress had her back to Sri, so he sidled in, not wanting any part of his person to get entangled in her feathered headgear. He managed exactly the opposite. Feeling something snag, the TV actress reached backwards to reveal a blue sanitary pad. She squealed.

  Erica smiled cautiously. ‘That, Sunaina, is my dear friend, Sri. The voice that tells you where you can get the lowest priced domestic appliances in Mumbai.’

  ‘Hi. I can also tell you why your child must drink Surge.’

  ‘Hi.’ The TV actress’s voice was choked. Not completely unexpected, considering the sudden surge of blue sanitary pads about her person.

  Erica needed information and quick. She’d always regarded Sri as a type of social sandpaper: a person who took pleasure in working away at the unwary. At this party were people who might not appreciate that level of polish.

  She asked, ‘Why are you padded up?

  ‘Audiences didn’t care for it a century ago. You’re saying it evokes the same response today?’ Sri responded.

  The TV actress asked incredulously, ‘Sanitary pads?’

  ‘No. Picasso’s Blue Period.’ He excused himself. There was only this much fun to be had educating commoners.

  Around were people dressed up as what they were not. Film actors, pop stars, historical characters, tribesmen and fairy tale folk. People who could not, nay, would not be themselves.

  These are people I can break the conversational roti with. Have a drink with. Dance with. Not fall in love with! That bloody emotion has left the hotel. It’s locked far away in a white plastic bag.

  Finding people staring openly, he purred.

  They must be wondering. Who is this champion of femininity? Who is this paladin, garlanded the way he is?

  The bar was located in an almost circular balcony. The glass of white wine in his hand caught stray bursts of light as he swayed to the music. This is the life. This is the playground. He raised his Tag Heuer. 9.15 pm.

  Vidhi hasn’t come as yet.

  She arrived a few minutes later with two females. Sri swiftly arrested any effort to acquaint them with the value of time.

  Desist! These two females belong to an exotic species. Not like the caged parrots of 101, Ganga Sagar. These birds flew over great open spaces, unfettered by time. Okay. They didn’t. That is, real birds didn’t. Migration depended on timing, seasons and all. What is fucking wrong with me? This is a bloody fancy dress party.

  Srinivas Ramachandran swerved into a fourth glass of Semillon Chardonnay. Both girls had potential. Yasmin was currently overseeing a medical transcription project and appeared candid about needing voice-over artists. Anu worked in event management. Her company specialised in music, film and book releases. Over the surrounding buildings rose the ladder.

  If Vidhi had to compete, she’d have to pull a bird out of the hat.

  By 10.30 pm, Vidhi spoke dreamily of going to Khandala. Anu and Yasmin too were in. Sri said he was happy to drive. Costumes were abandoned and the party progressed. A hundred years later, the blue period was turning a thrilling shade of pink.

  A minute after Sri glanced left and saw Anu, the rain came down in sheets. The car didn’t make any more stops until Khandala. Enquiries were made at three guesthouses. All were booked up. The car moved ahead to Lonavala.

  Much closer than heading back like a loser to Mumbai.

  Sri got down in the slush on seeing a decrepit signboard. Following the directions, he made his way through a thicket, stepped ankle-deep in muck and lurched into a lodge.

  The elderly guy manning the front office said he was full up. Sri begged. It was 3 in the morning. He had three women in his car and frankly, they had nowhere to go. Grumpily, the old man parted with a double room.

  The party settled in. Marking his territory, Sri threw his cigarette pack on the bed at the far side. The girls were left the bed closer the door. The cross-country trudge mandating a shower, he was in first, glass in hand.

  Upon re-entering the room, things looked slightly different. The drinking water jug was empty and his bed was soaking wet. All three females had mischievous grins. His eyes went the way they regularly did. He blinked.

  ‘Where am I going to sleep?’

  ‘Don’t think you’re spoilt for choice.’ Anu ran her fingers playfully over the girls’ bed.

  He turned to Vidhi. It was an instinctive move, coming from belief that this plan would work out best if he understood her stance on the matter. Neglecting their frequent but untitled intimacy could prove hazardous.

  No resistance. She didn’t even bat an eyelid. Smooth.

  Three drunk women and one guy sharing a bed. Who’d have thought Vidhi was in on the game? She’s pulled a bloody peacock out of the hat.

  Escape velocity was achieved upon switching off the lights. And Sri was welcomed into that palace of pleasures frequented by porn stars and guys with catamarans.

  A few minutes into proceedings, Vidhi got up from the bed. Understandably, the withdrawal of this solitary player was not one that upset Sri. The other two were more than making up with their enthusiasm. But when Vidhi decided to seat herself behind his head, admittedly, the feeling was not so good.

  Not having played this game before, he was unfamiliar with the field setting. One thing, however, was beyond the pale of doubt. No girl should be sitting on a chair directly behind the wicketkeeper.

  Until that moment, the falling into place of things had been so smooth that if a dried fish had been found under his pillow, he’d have seen the good fun in it and giggled. Not anymore.

  Yasmin attempted reconnection. ‘Vidhi? Why are you sitting by yourself on that chair?’

  The reply was a stab of silence. Cold and cutting. After two hesitant minutes, Yasmin dropped out, leaving only Anu soldiering on.

  With Yasmin falling asleep next to him and Vidhi frosting behind, the nagging suspicion that this whole act could be headed south, straight past critical care, was fast gaining momentum.

  Observing dwindling crowd support, Anu asked, ‘Something wrong, Vidhi?’

  ‘Sri. You bastard. Don’t you have any shame?’

  ‘Bastard? Me? What have I done, Vidhi? You started it.’

  ‘Started what? Do you think I came here to be part of an orgy? You think I would start any of this filthy stuff?’

  ‘Okay. Not you, but these are your pals. I’m only going with the flow.’

  As if in response, Anu switched on the light thereby ceasing to bring crowds to their feet in Lower Egypt.

  Vidhi trembled in indignation. ‘You sicken me. I’d leave right now if it wasn’t raining so heavily.’

  ‘Don’t leave. I’ll get out. All of this is too confusing. It’s just too bloody confusing.’ Sri got out of the bed swiftly to show an unsullied mind. But the gears were whirring.

  What’s it with these panties? What looks like this is actually that!

  With the air of an expert, he closed the door behind him. In the corridor outside was a bench. He lay on it. Rain slanted in from the open courtyard.

  From zero to minus one!

  Staying with established policy, the new day sun brought with it discovery. Vidhi had left. Left behind were Anu, Yasmin and one car, owner unknown. On the way back, Sri enquired into the night’s proceedings. What he learnt was Anu had been in foursomes before and Yasmin thought his voice was cool. On the revolution in the car: it was just a silly girly game. The idea was to touch him, while sitting in the front seat, without him realising.

  Bloody hell! Forget playing, I didn’t even know there was a game on.

  After lunch in Mahim, Yasmin asked to be dropped home.

  In the unmanned li
ft, she twined her legs around Sri. ‘You know, I can’t get your voice out of my head.’

  Sri’s response was one of interested silence worked around a sheepish smile.

  ‘Give me your cell number. I might have some VO work for you. Interested?’

  ‘Let’s not talk work right now.’ Kissing her forehead, he softly spoke his number, marking each digit with one of her fingers. By the time they were outside her door, the necessary details had been fingered into her memory.

  On Sri’s return to the car, Anu asked, ‘Have you fallen for Yasmin?’

  ‘Not when the car was last serviced. Have you?’

  ‘Don’t kid. In bed you were reacting more to her than me.’

  ‘Such imputations are damaging to my essentially equitable nature. Let she who casts the first—’

  ‘Oh, please. Save me.’

  ‘In time, that too. For now, allow me the privilege of proving you wrong.’ Seeing her smile cheekily, he added, ‘Do many people walk around in this lane? Cop vans? Doesn’t matter, I guess. A man is allowed to defend his character in public.’

  Adding body and volume to the cheeky smile, Anu laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. Sri parked the car even as he stared, fascinated, at himself in the rear-view mirror.

  You devil, you!

  Then he launched into defending his egalitarian approach to women.

  On the matter of the car, owner unknown, Anu assured him Vidhi would get in touch. Bridges would be crossed as and when they were made.

  At 4 in the afternoon, she was dropped off along with the car. Before reaching her place, however, was a small detail so far untouched.

  At a traffic signal, Sri said, ‘You know, I was thinking. I’d really like to get into the public performance space. Not acting and stuff but like anything else. I think I have the voice and hopefully my looks won’t make people drive off cliffs.’

  ‘You won’t believe it. That’s exactly what I thought last night. Have you thought of MCing?’

  ‘What rubbish! You really think I could pull off the good evening ladies and gentleman stuff?’

  Oooh, humility!

  ‘I think you could be quite good. You have a certain something that will appeal to large groups.’

  ‘Look at what happened in bed last night.’

  There was a wicked laugh, not from Sri.

  ‘You got so nervous you wet it.’

  ‘I didn’t. Bloody hell. It was all so…’

  ‘Forget it. Okay, bye!’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘Not in my compound. My daughter comes home from school around now.’

  ‘Daughter?’

  In twenty-first century India, refreshingly, a daughter still meant the possibility of a husband.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? My husband’s in the merchant navy.’

  For the next few seconds, Sri’s shoelaces became the sole focus of his attention. Anu busied herself with the locking of car doors.

  Breaking news on daughter and husband had the desired effect and Sri headed homeward. The portcullis had come down on Vidhi but a trap door to Anu and Yasmin had sprung open. The loom tirelessly spun grey.

  His cab entered the compound. Not 101, Ganga Sagar. Not the cave of the winged one. This was home. His home. Flat No. 801, Shradhanjali.

  Thanks Anirudh, man. Really, man.

  And he was back.

  ✽✽✽

  Four years ago, he had walked up the steps to 101, Ganga Sagar. The results of all his scheming summed up by one large shiny nought. Keyless and clueless, he had stood outside on the landing. The very same one Dad had extensively acquainted himself with... on all fours. The manifest similarity not lost, Sri rang the bell.

  ‘Don’t people realise the time?’

  ‘Pick a joker first.’

  ‘I have. Seven of Hearts.’

  His mother, the Queen of Trifling Matters, opened the door. With her opening enquiry, she revealed what the future would hold. ‘Why so late?’

  ‘Because I thought I’d leave seriously fucking up for as late as possible.’

  Father Ramachandran, with a hand on the goddess’s arm, stayed the levelling bolt of annihilation that was to follow.

  He asked, ‘What happened, baba? Say.’

  From among the cards strewn across the chrome-plated trolley, the open Seven of Hearts beckoned with crooked finger.

  Oh, phurck! The Seven of Hearts stands for the Days of the Weak.

  Almost offensively, Sri recounted the long-spun tale. They were merciful enough not to ask any more. Instead, Dad dealt him in. He lost. They didn’t take the money. Almost unnoticed went the smirk on the masala maven’s face.

  The next morning, Anirudh came over with Zahra. On waking up late, Sri found a meeting underway.

  Zero and Zahra at the zoo! They had brought their daughter, Shivani, along too. This isn’t the film to be watching. There’s just too much that can go wrong.

  The youngest pup nuzzled against the winged dragon and asked for a Pepsi. This didn’t result in a jet of flame and a screaming child. The essential nature of the pack had been tampered with.

  Bloody hell! In my absence, this pack has learned to stop snapping. Watching all of them together, you’d never believe this film had opened with scenes of rack and ruin.

  Anirudh said, ‘Take things slow. You’ve been through an unusual experience.’

  ‘Unusual experience?’ Sri repeated dully. The expression was obviously short on vitamins.

  ‘Prefer emasculating?’ Zahra asked back, laughing that throaty laugh of hers.

  Sri grinned. Seriously. For the first time in two years.

  Al Capone was back in the house. Emasculated. The capo dei capi[77] of capons.

  He saw his mother’s face just before she wiped it with her saree pallu. His grin stopped in its tracks. She was waiting. It was only a matter of time.

  Before leaving, Ani said, ‘Get your breath back. We’re here for you.’

  At the door, Zahra held his hand.

  Lucky bastard, Ani! These panties are the real goods.

  ✽✽✽

  He entered Shradhanjali's lobby and felt its dark coolness embrace him. The watchman saluted. The lift descended crankily. His gaze remained on an embossed nameplate. It glinted Srinivas Ramachandran.

  ✽✽✽

  The ceiling of the boys’ bedroom at 101, Ganga Sagar bore the brunt of Ani’s prescribed slowing-down. Over the next year, while time nodded off on its feet, all effort was directed at staring upwards.

  The ceiling had reciprocated sweetly, becoming exactly the kind of ceiling needed during emotional times. It took it upon itself to always be there.

  No panties. No ladder. No nothing.

  Back in the ward, Doctors Zahra and Anirudh along with the intern, Shivani monitored the patient regularly. Even super specialists Mom and Dad checked that the fan was only being gazed at with traditional intent.

  Out of the grey came a question.

  ‘Thought about what you want to do?’ It had been long enough.

  ‘No, Ani. I don’t know. I know I can’t keep staring at the ceiling.’

  ‘It’s been a year. Make a few calls.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To people you’ve worked with in the past.’

  ‘But they’re all Radha’s contacts.’

  ‘How the fuck does that matter?’

  ‘I don’t know. What if she finds out?’

  ‘You’ve really lost your balls, haven’t you?’

  ‘I don't know, man. I’m scared. I don’t want her thinking…’

  ‘I’m there for you, man. Do it. Make a few calls. Get back into the scene. You’ve spent the last few years fucking around in a sound studio. I’m sure it means something. I’ll ask around too. We must have sold a bike to some media types.’

  Sri’s words came out softly. ‘I wasn’t fucking around. I used to manage it.’

  ‘Right. Right. Now go make a few calls.’

&n
bsp; ‘But I don’t want to work like that. I want to use my voice, Ani.’

  ‘You want to sing? You’re better off with no balls then.’

  ‘Ani, you’re not helping. I want to do like voice-overs and dubbing and stuff.’

  ‘Okay, Arjuna, call those Mahabharata guys then. This way you’ll get bed sores staring at the ceiling.’

  ✽✽✽

  The collapsible metal rhombuses of the lift door flattened themselves against one side. Two boys stepped out. Sri stepped in.

  ✽✽✽

  After dithering for a couple of days, enough courage was worked up to call the Mahabharata guys. He asked for Surdendhu Bhattacharya. He was told Surdendhu was no longer in the country. He asked for Pratibha. She was in a production meeting. He thanked the voice and hung up.

  The ball was in play. Things were motion-bound. More calls followed to people in advertising, TV and radio. His radar swept the world of media. In all cases, he was asked to call back.

  Upon reporting these developments to Anirudh, the advice received was short.

  ‘Looks like Arjuna has been sent back into exile. Okay, make one of those demo CDs, na? Try your luck that way.’

  In his heart, Arjuna held Krishna tight.

  Inside of a week, he was in a studio creating voice samples. Besides the names and addresses he could remember, copies were couriered to all industry names in the Yellow Pages. This done, the fan was challenged with flashing eyes. The cracks in the ceiling above the blades winked back.

  When the sum total of responses to this marketing campaign peaked, at zero, he made another call to Anirudh.

  Lord Krishna spoke so. ‘It’s a matter of making contact, man. Why don’t you go where these sorts hang out? What’s that bar at Breach Candy? But listen... don’t act like a coolie[78] without luggage. Do that stuff you used to do... all intellectual and sophisticated.’

  ‘You think it’ll work?’

  ‘I don’t know if it will. I’m just hoping guys in the line hear your voice. You know, with you talking like you know the scene. Something should click. But you’ve got to act like you don’t need it. Don’t ever forget that. Otherwise, they’ll never let you have it.’